Le Suzerain Des ?mes En Peine

In a dream he cherished illusions,Gloomy premonitions of a funeral storm,His hatred sticked without respite,Filled by the suffering, the screams and the shocksOf these lower creatures who sleep without dreamingAs this far and diaphanous star flood the landscape with its misty light,I see the frightened souls wandering through the swamps,Sports of a funeral lordThe sharp flicks of the hoofs blend with the long screams of agony,With the eternal lamentations of the blind Morpheus,Captive of an invisible dungeon from which he was formally the masterThe flutes measure of this grim hunt,That no blood will soil,A requiem of a dreamed danceAny salvation will come to clear the profane wound,And its essence will bear the sign forever,Invisible but primordial at the eyes of the Last,King of the suffering souls,THE KING, ON THE THRONE OF SORROW

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